


verse-moi l'ivresse

by peculiar_mademoiselle



Category: Versailles (TV 2015)
Genre: Biting, Bruising, Choking, Dom/sub Undertones, F/M, One Shot, Rough Sex, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-20
Updated: 2017-05-20
Packaged: 2018-11-02 19:19:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,020
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10951047
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/peculiar_mademoiselle/pseuds/peculiar_mademoiselle
Summary: "She looked divine, her dress around her ankles, bare but for the paint on her heavy mouth. In the light of the dying fire, she appeared almost mythical – Venus emerging from a sea of foaming blood. Glancing at him from under her eyelashes, she let herself tremble. She could feel his eyes on her, and feel her face become erubescent as he drank her in..."





	verse-moi l'ivresse

Fabien Marchal was good at his job; serving his King was his utmost priority, and he relished in it. 

Yet, this left little time to serve himself. Finding a lover was difficult for a man who could offer nothing of substance. Of course, maids and serving girls wouldn’t dare deny a man so close to His Majesty, nor one so imposing. But he wanted more than some insipid, vacant-eyed mademoiselle, who would inspire in him more pity than passion. 

Béatrice had stolen into his life slowly - catching his eye and smirking, brushing past him in the corridor, gazing longingly at him over the shoulder of her unworthy dance partner. She was a noblewoman, and a witty and bold one at that. Nevertheless, she asked nothing of him, content to share his bed, and in what little company he could offer. They had an understanding, and it felt good. 

He lay in bed, contemplating that fact, wary of allowing himself to be too comfortable. If there was something that didn’t come easily to him, it was trust. 

He was just about to drift off, when he was roused by a somewhat tentative knock. Snapping back into awareness, he reached for his gun, slowly stepping towards the closed door. 

“Speak,”

“Monsieur Marchal?”

He lowered his weapon immediately upon hearing Madame de Clermont’s soft voice, and moved to allow her in with almost embarrassing haste. 

She stood, blinking at him with her large, doe-like brown eyes. She was still fully dressed, dark maroon corset fastened above billowing skirts. However her usually intricately styled hair fell loose, in curls about her powdered face. Her pale skin contrasted against her full, crimson lips. 

“May I come in?”

He nodded stiffly, and she made her way to the centre of the room while he shut the door after her. He was suddenly acutely aware that he was only in breeches and a slightly open shirt, while she remained mostly put together. Thus, he began to pull at the ties on her dress, not so roughly as to be painful, but with definite purpose. 

“What are you doing?” she remarked lightly, though her breath hitched in her throat. 

“I want to see you,”

Béatrice only nodded, supplicant to his ministrations, as he worked to pull off the layers of material. Finally, he tugged the last of it to the floor, and stood back to admire his handiwork. 

She looked divine, her dress around her ankles, bare but for the paint on her heavy mouth. In the light of the dying fire, she appeared almost mythical – Venus emerging from a sea of foaming blood. Glancing at him from under her eyelashes, she let herself tremble. She could feel his eyes on her, and feel her face become erubescent as he drank her in. 

He slowly made his way towards her, and took her into his arms. She was pliant beneath his touch, as he caressed her white, petal-soft skin with his rough hands. Their eyes met, and she gave him a tiny nod of acceptance. That was all he needed; he pulled her close and pushed their mouths together. She parted her lips readily, allowing his tongue access. He half-pushed, half carried her to the bed, and threw her down beneath him. Chest-heaving, she stared up at him, simultaneously innocently sacrificial and utterly wanton. He forcefully pulled her back up, and she cried out in pain and pleasure, knowing that his grip on her arms would be marked by lavender bruises come morning. 

Moving his kisses across her face and to her neck, he held her tighter still, each one of her gasps crackling within him like fire. His kisses became more and more forceful, until he was dragging his teeth along the surface of her sensitive skin. When he teased her nipple, she exclaimed and grasped a handful of his long hair. She opened her legs in a desperate attempt to get closer to him, and he settled them around his own hips, pulling down his breeches. 

He returned to kissing her neck, sucking on her pale throat. As he positioned and penetrated her, he bit down. She gasped and whined, her tremulous hands grappling on his back, clinging to his shirt. He began to move, as did she, and he couldn’t suppress his own moan. She threw her head back, uttering cries to God and his name, as though in ecstatic prayer, still moving in time with him. 

One of his shaking hands slid to her lower back, while the other reached out and seized her throat. He squeezed, applying pressure as she choked on her renewed rapturous yells. They sped up, and then gasped loudly, one after the other. He held her still for a moment, savouring it, before lying back and rolling her off him. She lay beside him, still breathing heavily, her luminous skin shining with sweat. 

After a quiet few minutes, he propped himself up on one arm, admiring what he had wrought. She was breathing deeply now, but her hair was still wild, and her lips still swollen, looking like the kind of plump, intoxicating rose the King would insist on having in his garden. Already, her upper arms and hips were reddening, soon to bruise. He traced the marks, a strange pride stirring within him. Similar marks were littered across her collarbone, culminating in a darker mark on her throat, a result of his bite. She shuddered as he stroked that one, eyes fluttering closed. 

Eventually, she carefully sat up, hesitantly pulling her clothes back on, the best she could without assistance. He watched her from his position on the bed. After making a futile attempt to smooth her hair, she made her way to the door. 

She paused before leaving though, turning back to him with a smirk. 

“Shall I come back tomorrow, Monsieur?”

He nodded, biting his lip in an unsuccessful attempt to suppress his own smile. 

“I suppose you could,” 

Her smile grew, and she bid him goodnight. He watched her go, something warm swelling in his chest. 

He supposed it couldn’t hurt to relax a little.


End file.
